Saddam Hussein’s death caught me by surprise. I was a little surprised by the death sentence to begin with, more surprised that the method chosen was hanging, and triply surprised that he was actually executed.
First, Augusto Pinochet was never condemned to death. He died naturally, recently. His various criminal cases from embezzlement to human rights abuses like torture were still pending, but I didn’t expect a death sentence for him despite his violent reign. The criminal process took much longer for Pinochet than for Hussein, which implies more thoroughness and thereby fairness in the criminal trial, while Hussein’s was comparatively speedy and always seemed tainted by scandal to me, never appearing wholly just. Human rights trials in the Hague and South Africa crawl by comparison to Hussein’s trial. Comparing Hussein to Pinochet and other despotic offenders, the death sentence surprised me.
Second, hanging seems so 19th century or roguish like Texas. Hanging brings to mind vigilante justice, hideously racist hate crimes, and the possibility of slow, inhumane death. (Though judging by the Iraqi choice of rope and the size of the knot on that noose, I don’t imagine Hussein actually lingered long.) Hanging reminds me of spectacle, tormenting of criminals in public squares and public humiliation, and yet Hussein died by the noose.
Third, the execution itself. Newspaper headlines confirm the suspicion in my gut that the hanging happened too swiftly to ensure real justice and fairness was served by the Iraqi court. The choice to hang him so quickly, and during a mainstream western holiday season, slinks and slides, bypassing public scrutiny of proceedings. I expected lengthy appeals, virulent courtroom proceedings arguing against death, and stalling and delays against commission of the execution. But no, swiftly Hussein did depart after the court’s pronouncement.
Strange, surreal, peculiar. Questionable, biased, unjust. I don’t argue in defense of Hussein, not in the least, but I flinch at questionable justice, and I’m left wondering---did he really deserve to die? If what I understand of anti-fundamentalist Muslims is true, would Allah have wanted Hussein to die? Justice should be tempered with forgiveness and humanity. Eye-for-an-eye is angry, vengeful, and does anyone deserve revenge by such a final and brutal force?
I don’t know any answers to the questions I raise, but I know that Hussein leaves more questions in death than even in life, the final surprise from a notoriously violent dictator.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Just average at life
Talking to my same friend, I discovered that my personal philosophy is “I’ll get around to it.” Is that lame or what?
I’m a starter, not a finisher. I’m daring and risky enough to start anything, but I rarely get around to finishing. I lose steam on a project, and then move onto the thrill of something new.
New things whisper (or scream) new promises of what might be, but once I can see the shape of what it will be, I’m satisfied that the project is complete in my mind. It’s the same reason I can write my blog, children’s books, and short stories: they’re always new and fresh because they’re too short to need the gumption necessary to end. The beginning and the result need to be close enough together in my writing that I can make that bridge.
I have so many jewelry, sewing, and writing projects I’ve started that linger indefinitely in limbo. My apartment is project purgatory. It’s the same with everything else in my apartment too. I start to clean, start to organize, and I reach a point where I’m reasonably satisfied, so I move on to couch-sitting, sated that I accomplished any little thing.
I read A LOT though, and that’s probably the only thing I finish regularly.
My husband complains that I always want partial credit. Like instead of taking an “incomplete” in my life lessons, I settle for a “C” based on the projects I did hand in that were uncompleted. I think it’s brilliant. Even though I was an anal-retentive grade-hog “A”-or-nothing graduate student, in life, I’ll take what grade I can get.
Remember the geological formations of object around my house? Partial credit. “But I cleaned up that pile, that was something, right?” Partial credit. “But I put the summer clothes I could find in storage, that accomplished a goal, right?” Partial credit.
It drives my husband nutso when he thinks about all the things I never finish, and sometimes he brings it up as a topic of conversation: “You can’t start another knitting project until you finish the one you started 9 months ago.” (See? My projects are like babies--they gestate.)
Fortunately for me--in all spousal related subjects--my husband is a morally flexible guy who’ll tolerate almost all of my shenanigans. He’s great to have around when I’m ready to turn in a C-minus laundry haul.
I’m a starter, not a finisher. I’m daring and risky enough to start anything, but I rarely get around to finishing. I lose steam on a project, and then move onto the thrill of something new.
New things whisper (or scream) new promises of what might be, but once I can see the shape of what it will be, I’m satisfied that the project is complete in my mind. It’s the same reason I can write my blog, children’s books, and short stories: they’re always new and fresh because they’re too short to need the gumption necessary to end. The beginning and the result need to be close enough together in my writing that I can make that bridge.
I have so many jewelry, sewing, and writing projects I’ve started that linger indefinitely in limbo. My apartment is project purgatory. It’s the same with everything else in my apartment too. I start to clean, start to organize, and I reach a point where I’m reasonably satisfied, so I move on to couch-sitting, sated that I accomplished any little thing.
I read A LOT though, and that’s probably the only thing I finish regularly.
My husband complains that I always want partial credit. Like instead of taking an “incomplete” in my life lessons, I settle for a “C” based on the projects I did hand in that were uncompleted. I think it’s brilliant. Even though I was an anal-retentive grade-hog “A”-or-nothing graduate student, in life, I’ll take what grade I can get.
Remember the geological formations of object around my house? Partial credit. “But I cleaned up that pile, that was something, right?” Partial credit. “But I put the summer clothes I could find in storage, that accomplished a goal, right?” Partial credit.
It drives my husband nutso when he thinks about all the things I never finish, and sometimes he brings it up as a topic of conversation: “You can’t start another knitting project until you finish the one you started 9 months ago.” (See? My projects are like babies--they gestate.)
Fortunately for me--in all spousal related subjects--my husband is a morally flexible guy who’ll tolerate almost all of my shenanigans. He’s great to have around when I’m ready to turn in a C-minus laundry haul.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Angry hearts
A few weeks ago, I was in my dermatologist’s waiting room. A woman approached the front desk, “I have been waiting for thirty minutes. When will I see the doctor?” she asked.
The receptionist was very polite, “When the doctor’s nurse comes out, I’ll ask her for you. Until then, I’m not sure.” The woman huffed back to her seat.
A couple of minutes later, the woman puffed up to the desk again, “I have been waiting forty minutes!” The receptionist repeated her earlier disclaimer, but the woman was not satisfied.
The receptionist offered, “I can reschedule your appointment for another time if you’d like.”
The unhappy woman turned around and shouted from across the waiting room, “YOU scheduled my appointment!”
Still patient, the receptionist said that she didn’t know who scheduled the appointment, but that she could reschedule for a more convenient time.
Again the woman raised her voice across the room, “YOU scheduled the appointment; I don’t WANT another appointment. I want to be in there NOW.”
I have to admit that I laughed. I was horrified at the behavior of the well-dressed older woman, and mystified at the receptionist’s cool, but I laughed because she was so preposterous. American medical care is screwed up, right? Everyone knows this. No one expects to see the doctor on time, or at least shouldn’t expect to. But miss khaki trench coat from the angry mob, EXPECTED to be in the office on time because YOU scheduled the appointment! Yikes.
Just days before that, I witnessed an event I thought was even worse because I knew the people. A group of my friends met at a sports bar to watch MotoGP racing and plan a non-violent scooter regulation demonstration. Some acquaintances of a friend of mine ordered bloody mary’s. Not my fave drink, but it is one of the acceptable morning cocktails. The acquaintances were angry that their drinks didn’t taste how they wanted, and they decided to send them back. When the waitress approached, the woman said, “Do you KNOW how to make a bloody mary?” It was horrible.
I was so embarrassed to be at the same table as these clowns. I wanted a Wile E. Coyote style sign that said, “I’m not with these people.” I also wanted to tell the waitress that I was really sorry and that she was doing a good job.
I watched the waitress slink to the other end of the bar and set out glasses. She measured out each part and ingredient that the acquaintances demanded with her chin tucked down to her chest. Meanwhile, the acquaintances whined on about what a horrible bartender the waitress was. How insulting.
The waitress resubmitted the drinks, and the woman said, “I guess that’s better,” and then as the waitress walked away, “She is NOT getting a tip.” I wished the floor would peel open and they would disappear into Chicago’s sewers. What dreadful people.
I’m not the sort of person who believes that manners are dead and that we live in an impolite society. All around me I see evidence that people are friendly and courteous most of the time, but there are those in every age that will ruin that impression.
The receptionist was very polite, “When the doctor’s nurse comes out, I’ll ask her for you. Until then, I’m not sure.” The woman huffed back to her seat.
A couple of minutes later, the woman puffed up to the desk again, “I have been waiting forty minutes!” The receptionist repeated her earlier disclaimer, but the woman was not satisfied.
The receptionist offered, “I can reschedule your appointment for another time if you’d like.”
The unhappy woman turned around and shouted from across the waiting room, “YOU scheduled my appointment!”
Still patient, the receptionist said that she didn’t know who scheduled the appointment, but that she could reschedule for a more convenient time.
Again the woman raised her voice across the room, “YOU scheduled the appointment; I don’t WANT another appointment. I want to be in there NOW.”
I have to admit that I laughed. I was horrified at the behavior of the well-dressed older woman, and mystified at the receptionist’s cool, but I laughed because she was so preposterous. American medical care is screwed up, right? Everyone knows this. No one expects to see the doctor on time, or at least shouldn’t expect to. But miss khaki trench coat from the angry mob, EXPECTED to be in the office on time because YOU scheduled the appointment! Yikes.
Just days before that, I witnessed an event I thought was even worse because I knew the people. A group of my friends met at a sports bar to watch MotoGP racing and plan a non-violent scooter regulation demonstration. Some acquaintances of a friend of mine ordered bloody mary’s. Not my fave drink, but it is one of the acceptable morning cocktails. The acquaintances were angry that their drinks didn’t taste how they wanted, and they decided to send them back. When the waitress approached, the woman said, “Do you KNOW how to make a bloody mary?” It was horrible.
I was so embarrassed to be at the same table as these clowns. I wanted a Wile E. Coyote style sign that said, “I’m not with these people.” I also wanted to tell the waitress that I was really sorry and that she was doing a good job.
I watched the waitress slink to the other end of the bar and set out glasses. She measured out each part and ingredient that the acquaintances demanded with her chin tucked down to her chest. Meanwhile, the acquaintances whined on about what a horrible bartender the waitress was. How insulting.
The waitress resubmitted the drinks, and the woman said, “I guess that’s better,” and then as the waitress walked away, “She is NOT getting a tip.” I wished the floor would peel open and they would disappear into Chicago’s sewers. What dreadful people.
I’m not the sort of person who believes that manners are dead and that we live in an impolite society. All around me I see evidence that people are friendly and courteous most of the time, but there are those in every age that will ruin that impression.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
I'd never call you Judas
My friend’s personal philosophy is “people will disappoint you.” I never really understood why my gut reaction to her adage was so viscerally negative until today: I want to believe that no one will ever disappoint me.
I must have one half a pair of rose-tinted glasses, because I see moments with people as either uplifting or disappointing. I work hard to block disappointment from my mind, but really my interior monologue recounts every slight against me.
My mind hoards memories of disappointment. In the moment of regret, I feel a physical pang. My chest restricts, my eyes narrow, my throat constricts—I am laser focused on that moment of angst. My mind records the act of betrayal like a grainy 80's beta cam, raw and jarring.
I don’t want to see disappointment in my memory, I want to burn the tape of betrayal by holding a magnifying glass to it under the hot summer sun and igniting it. I want all memory of betrayal scorched from my mind until only satisfaction is left. Instead, my self-obsessive brain replays the instant of anguish on a loop, flipping from scene to scene after a few repetitions.
My friend’s statement, “people will disappoint you,” confirms what I don’t want to see. I nod and agree with her, but really I’m chafing at her view. I want the fairytale that everyone will support and cherish and fulfill me all of the time, without fail, even though no one is capable of performing to that standard of perfection.
People disappoint me, and I disappoint others (way too frequently), but the balance of my life points firmly to positive. If I believe like my friend that people will disappoint me, will I at last lose the shaky video library of betrayals? Or, if I learn to see everything as rosy, will I forgive the disappointment I feel?
I don’t think either question is the right beginning for healing my brain, but I shy equally from the ambiguously gray philosophy, “things happen.” Nothing would disappoint or redeem, neither would be good or bad, it would all just be “things.”
I want to continue making judgments, “this is good, this is bad,” but I don’t want to cling to the bad. People may disappoint me, but I’d rather remember them validating me.
I must have one half a pair of rose-tinted glasses, because I see moments with people as either uplifting or disappointing. I work hard to block disappointment from my mind, but really my interior monologue recounts every slight against me.
My mind hoards memories of disappointment. In the moment of regret, I feel a physical pang. My chest restricts, my eyes narrow, my throat constricts—I am laser focused on that moment of angst. My mind records the act of betrayal like a grainy 80's beta cam, raw and jarring.
I don’t want to see disappointment in my memory, I want to burn the tape of betrayal by holding a magnifying glass to it under the hot summer sun and igniting it. I want all memory of betrayal scorched from my mind until only satisfaction is left. Instead, my self-obsessive brain replays the instant of anguish on a loop, flipping from scene to scene after a few repetitions.
My friend’s statement, “people will disappoint you,” confirms what I don’t want to see. I nod and agree with her, but really I’m chafing at her view. I want the fairytale that everyone will support and cherish and fulfill me all of the time, without fail, even though no one is capable of performing to that standard of perfection.
People disappoint me, and I disappoint others (way too frequently), but the balance of my life points firmly to positive. If I believe like my friend that people will disappoint me, will I at last lose the shaky video library of betrayals? Or, if I learn to see everything as rosy, will I forgive the disappointment I feel?
I don’t think either question is the right beginning for healing my brain, but I shy equally from the ambiguously gray philosophy, “things happen.” Nothing would disappoint or redeem, neither would be good or bad, it would all just be “things.”
I want to continue making judgments, “this is good, this is bad,” but I don’t want to cling to the bad. People may disappoint me, but I’d rather remember them validating me.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Fly free bird
Clear Channel has so bruised classic rock it’s like an overripe peach escaped from a greedy corporate fist: “I will wring the highest profit possible out of lame programming and nationally broadcast generic deejays!” Classic rock is so over exposed that its context is irrelevant. Which is what makes it perfect.
I go bonkers on car trips longer than two hours. Hours two to four I get a little noxious, and then hours four plus I go totally off the deep end, which includes meaningless shouting, gripping the dash and rocking violently like I’m trying to shake the car, and ends with me pouting silently at the mean, nasty road. My only salvation is classic rock.
Some time around hour two, I start looking for the local Clear Channel classic rock station. Any white person can sing along with classic rock, which is why it’s so ubiquitous. Clear Channel wants me to come like they are and not fear the reaper. Okay, no problem. “Come on baby,” I’m already there.
Singing along, intentionally tunelessly, loudly and obnoxiously, I drown out the tedium of driving and the feeling of entrapment in my tiny car. Even my staunchly anti-corporate media husband plays along with the game and shouts “25 or six to four” with me. Should we try to do some more? All signs point to Yes. “In and around the lake.”
My favorite parts of automotive sing-alongs are changing lyrics to be witty or punning (“I wish I had Jesse’s squirrel”) and crazy back-up-dancing-fake-Freedom Rock-Woodstock-jamming out (Nodding head, “Yes, yes, yes—keep on rockin!” Shaking head, “No, no, no—don’t stop rockin!”).
Rock-n-roll will save my road-weary soul, Clear Channel style.
I go bonkers on car trips longer than two hours. Hours two to four I get a little noxious, and then hours four plus I go totally off the deep end, which includes meaningless shouting, gripping the dash and rocking violently like I’m trying to shake the car, and ends with me pouting silently at the mean, nasty road. My only salvation is classic rock.
Some time around hour two, I start looking for the local Clear Channel classic rock station. Any white person can sing along with classic rock, which is why it’s so ubiquitous. Clear Channel wants me to come like they are and not fear the reaper. Okay, no problem. “Come on baby,” I’m already there.
Singing along, intentionally tunelessly, loudly and obnoxiously, I drown out the tedium of driving and the feeling of entrapment in my tiny car. Even my staunchly anti-corporate media husband plays along with the game and shouts “25 or six to four” with me. Should we try to do some more? All signs point to Yes. “In and around the lake.”
My favorite parts of automotive sing-alongs are changing lyrics to be witty or punning (“I wish I had Jesse’s squirrel”) and crazy back-up-dancing-fake-Freedom Rock-Woodstock-jamming out (Nodding head, “Yes, yes, yes—keep on rockin!” Shaking head, “No, no, no—don’t stop rockin!”).
Rock-n-roll will save my road-weary soul, Clear Channel style.
Noli me tangere
It’s full-on germ season now in Chicago. There’s no pretending otherwise. People on the bus sneeze, wipe their noses on their hands, then use the same hand to hold on to the pole. Ew. People on the train have deep, serious coughs, barely cover their faces, then touch the handles on the back of seats. Oh, shudder.
I keep alcohol based hand sanitizer in my backpack, in the front pocket, ready for the second I step off the bus. Slide left arm out of strap, spin bag over right shoulder onto my front, freak out, fumble for tube of sanitizer, breathe relief.
Or not.
During one of the bag whipping motions as I stepped off the bus, I realized, “To get the hand sanitizer, I touch my backpack with my dirty hands." And then further light dawned, "Wait, I touch my hand sanitizer with dirty hands.” I decided to pretend like this would not bother me. But it does. Of course it does.
To further entangle my consternation over germ annihilation, Matthew laughingly pointed out to me, “Hey, to get your hand sanitizer, you have to touch your purse with dirty hands!” This is not funny. No one should ever, ever joke about germs.
I whined and bobbed and weaved in response, “I know! It totally grosses me out so I’m pretending not to think about it!”
He laughed.
Here’s the other conundrum. Is it better to leave my gloves on when I ride the bus so my actual hands aren’t touching the bus rails? Or is touching with gloves worse since I don’t wash my gloves as often as I wash my hands? Think about it. I put my gloves on clean hands. I grip the bus pole with my gloves. I use my bare, naked, exposed hands to remove the gloves, thereby touching the gloves, which touched the pole.
This is horrible. There is no absolute solution to the germ transference issue. I touch the purse to touch the hand sanitizer bottle to sanitize my hands, then touch the bottle and touch the purse to put it away. I touch the gloves the gloves touch the pole, and then I touch the gloves that touched the pole.
I am so screwed.
I keep alcohol based hand sanitizer in my backpack, in the front pocket, ready for the second I step off the bus. Slide left arm out of strap, spin bag over right shoulder onto my front, freak out, fumble for tube of sanitizer, breathe relief.
Or not.
During one of the bag whipping motions as I stepped off the bus, I realized, “To get the hand sanitizer, I touch my backpack with my dirty hands." And then further light dawned, "Wait, I touch my hand sanitizer with dirty hands.” I decided to pretend like this would not bother me. But it does. Of course it does.
To further entangle my consternation over germ annihilation, Matthew laughingly pointed out to me, “Hey, to get your hand sanitizer, you have to touch your purse with dirty hands!” This is not funny. No one should ever, ever joke about germs.
I whined and bobbed and weaved in response, “I know! It totally grosses me out so I’m pretending not to think about it!”
He laughed.
Here’s the other conundrum. Is it better to leave my gloves on when I ride the bus so my actual hands aren’t touching the bus rails? Or is touching with gloves worse since I don’t wash my gloves as often as I wash my hands? Think about it. I put my gloves on clean hands. I grip the bus pole with my gloves. I use my bare, naked, exposed hands to remove the gloves, thereby touching the gloves, which touched the pole.
This is horrible. There is no absolute solution to the germ transference issue. I touch the purse to touch the hand sanitizer bottle to sanitize my hands, then touch the bottle and touch the purse to put it away. I touch the gloves the gloves touch the pole, and then I touch the gloves that touched the pole.
I am so screwed.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Gather ye round
Growing up, I had all the benefits of having an older brother. Yes, the disillusionment, the face farting, the wrestling practice—all the benefits of having an older brother. If you, dear reader, did not have the pleasure of growing up with an older brother, then I pity you deeply, and I send you my most sincere regards in this season of sharing.
My beloved Older Brother convinced me there was no Santa pretty early on. I don’t remember when the knowledge was granted, exactly, but I know positively it must have come from him.
One holiday, when I was less than four years old, Older Brother got two flashlights and pulled me along with him to look for Christmas presents. He thought he couldn’t get in trouble if I was along for the ride. While I don’t remember the event well, I do remember being perplexed because “Santa brings the presents.” Why would they be in our parents’ closets?
Our family lived in my grandmother’s sprawling five-bedroom house, so there were lots of places to check. My granny wasn’t very healthy at the time, and she was supposed to be babysitting us, but really my brother was in charge. Hence the sweep for presents. Granny must have heard us knocking around upstairs, because she climbed that long flight of stairs to the second floor and found us in the hall closet.
“What are you two doing in there?”
And what did I say? “Looking for presents,” smiling gladly to share the fun with Granny.
My Brother said, “No, you dummy!”
And so the search for Christmas presents concluded abruptly, with discipline.
Around the age of six or seven, my unbelief in Santa was pretty much cemented. I knew with the unwavering certainty granted by Older Brother that our parents were responsible for providing things on the Christmas list.
Later, sitting at the kitchen table with my best girl friend and her little sister while their mother washed dishes, I announced, “There’s no such thing as Santa.”
Dishes clattered, I kept coloring on my piece of paper, and the two sisters stated at me open mouthed.
“Mom?” my friend’s voice quavered, “There’s a Santa, right?”
The mother replied, “Christine, I think your mom is calling you.”
“OK. See you guys later.” My mom wasn’t calling. The phone hadn’t rung, she didn’t send psychic shock waves summoning me, there were no smoke signals. Mom didn’t need me home. But I was going anyway.
I never thought too much about the Santa thing: it just wasn’t a big deal to me. But then the unthinkable happened. Santa came to town. Not mall Santa, REAL Santa.
My parents packed me up in the car for an unusual weeknight visit to my friend’s house. In the first place, we never drove because it was just two blocks away, and in the second place, we never started our visits at night. Innocent Christine didn’t weigh these factors heavily though.
On our arrival, nothing was amiss. We were a little more dressed up than usual, but nothing too alarming. We just sat around in the living room while the grown-ups talked and we played a game.
And then the doorbell rang. “Who could it be?” asked my friend’s father. “It’s Santa!”
“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice at the door.
No way! I just said Santa didn’t exist, and now he’s at my best friend’s front door? He knows I’ve been naughty! He knows I’ve been telling lies about him! He’s right here!!!
Total panic mode. I ran up the stairs lickety-split and hid under my friend’s thankfully tall bed. Since she didn’t have the benefit of an older brother, so she followed everything I did, and she ran right behind me to hide under the bed.
“Girls, Santa has other children to see. He’s only here for a little while so you should come down and see him.”
“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice from downstairs.
I shivered in fear.
“Girls, come downstairs, Santa has to leave.”
Still shivering.
Eventually, one of the adults came to get us from upstairs. I only remember that night in wiggly lines with blurred colors and the effects of vertigo. I was so terrified of real Santa, that I was incapacitated. I remember knees wobbling like a bowl full of jelly, legs trembling like eight anxious reindeer, and eyes twitching like little reindeer noses.
I guess I was forced to sit on Santa’s lap. I guess I told him what I wanted for Christmas. But I was most grateful that I hid under the bed so long, I only had to sit with Scary Psychic Santa for a minute.
Thank you for the best blessing an Older Brother could wish for, Santa: scaring his little sister half to death.
My beloved Older Brother convinced me there was no Santa pretty early on. I don’t remember when the knowledge was granted, exactly, but I know positively it must have come from him.
One holiday, when I was less than four years old, Older Brother got two flashlights and pulled me along with him to look for Christmas presents. He thought he couldn’t get in trouble if I was along for the ride. While I don’t remember the event well, I do remember being perplexed because “Santa brings the presents.” Why would they be in our parents’ closets?
Our family lived in my grandmother’s sprawling five-bedroom house, so there were lots of places to check. My granny wasn’t very healthy at the time, and she was supposed to be babysitting us, but really my brother was in charge. Hence the sweep for presents. Granny must have heard us knocking around upstairs, because she climbed that long flight of stairs to the second floor and found us in the hall closet.
“What are you two doing in there?”
And what did I say? “Looking for presents,” smiling gladly to share the fun with Granny.
My Brother said, “No, you dummy!”
And so the search for Christmas presents concluded abruptly, with discipline.
Around the age of six or seven, my unbelief in Santa was pretty much cemented. I knew with the unwavering certainty granted by Older Brother that our parents were responsible for providing things on the Christmas list.
Later, sitting at the kitchen table with my best girl friend and her little sister while their mother washed dishes, I announced, “There’s no such thing as Santa.”
Dishes clattered, I kept coloring on my piece of paper, and the two sisters stated at me open mouthed.
“Mom?” my friend’s voice quavered, “There’s a Santa, right?”
The mother replied, “Christine, I think your mom is calling you.”
“OK. See you guys later.” My mom wasn’t calling. The phone hadn’t rung, she didn’t send psychic shock waves summoning me, there were no smoke signals. Mom didn’t need me home. But I was going anyway.
I never thought too much about the Santa thing: it just wasn’t a big deal to me. But then the unthinkable happened. Santa came to town. Not mall Santa, REAL Santa.
My parents packed me up in the car for an unusual weeknight visit to my friend’s house. In the first place, we never drove because it was just two blocks away, and in the second place, we never started our visits at night. Innocent Christine didn’t weigh these factors heavily though.
On our arrival, nothing was amiss. We were a little more dressed up than usual, but nothing too alarming. We just sat around in the living room while the grown-ups talked and we played a game.
And then the doorbell rang. “Who could it be?” asked my friend’s father. “It’s Santa!”
“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice at the door.
No way! I just said Santa didn’t exist, and now he’s at my best friend’s front door? He knows I’ve been naughty! He knows I’ve been telling lies about him! He’s right here!!!
Total panic mode. I ran up the stairs lickety-split and hid under my friend’s thankfully tall bed. Since she didn’t have the benefit of an older brother, so she followed everything I did, and she ran right behind me to hide under the bed.
“Girls, Santa has other children to see. He’s only here for a little while so you should come down and see him.”
“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice from downstairs.
I shivered in fear.
“Girls, come downstairs, Santa has to leave.”
Still shivering.
Eventually, one of the adults came to get us from upstairs. I only remember that night in wiggly lines with blurred colors and the effects of vertigo. I was so terrified of real Santa, that I was incapacitated. I remember knees wobbling like a bowl full of jelly, legs trembling like eight anxious reindeer, and eyes twitching like little reindeer noses.
I guess I was forced to sit on Santa’s lap. I guess I told him what I wanted for Christmas. But I was most grateful that I hid under the bed so long, I only had to sit with Scary Psychic Santa for a minute.
Thank you for the best blessing an Older Brother could wish for, Santa: scaring his little sister half to death.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The secret word is...
It all started so innocently (doesn’t it always?). I decided that I would use the Magic 8 Ball approach and wander through my library, settling on an object to help me interpret my life or advise me on how to proceed. Brilliant, right? A whole library. There’s a word that describes this process, and it’s a cool word, and I can’t remember it.
I knew I had received the word in my “Word A Day” e-mail subscription (it’s free, go sign up), but I had no idea where to start in the archive. I remembered, however, the most prominent pop culture reference to the Magic 8 Ball lifestyle, Augusten Burroughs. Burroughs wrote in “Running with Scissors” about his crazy adopted family’s use of the “Bible dip.” Identical to the process I described above, in the Bible dip, you flip through the pages, stick your finger in, and read the passage you landed on. Interpret away. Still, I didn’t want to be so populist and accept “bible dip” to define my actions, so I had to keep looking for THE WORD.
I Googled “Bible dip,” and I got this gem off the “Running with Scissors” message board: “We Bible Dip all the time, from the bartenders handbook, when deciding what drinks to make.”
Interesting, certainly, but not my word.
Next I stumbled into Urban Dictionary (dot com) and found, next to “Bible Dip,” "Bible Bigot.”
Bible bigot is remarkable for the tags in the second definition. Instead of creating keywords, the author continued the diatribe. (The author is no librarian; we would never abuse keywords that way.)
At last, exhausted for my search for the word, I went back to A Word A Day and searched smarter. I just entered the word “Bible” in the search box. From Anu Garg:
It’s bibliomancy. Thank you, Anu. I can go and search with a clear conscience, ready to follow the advice of my random encounter.
I knew I had received the word in my “Word A Day” e-mail subscription (it’s free, go sign up), but I had no idea where to start in the archive. I remembered, however, the most prominent pop culture reference to the Magic 8 Ball lifestyle, Augusten Burroughs. Burroughs wrote in “Running with Scissors” about his crazy adopted family’s use of the “Bible dip.” Identical to the process I described above, in the Bible dip, you flip through the pages, stick your finger in, and read the passage you landed on. Interpret away. Still, I didn’t want to be so populist and accept “bible dip” to define my actions, so I had to keep looking for THE WORD.
I Googled “Bible dip,” and I got this gem off the “Running with Scissors” message board: “We Bible Dip all the time, from the bartenders handbook, when deciding what drinks to make.”
Interesting, certainly, but not my word.
Next I stumbled into Urban Dictionary (dot com) and found, next to “Bible Dip,” "Bible Bigot.”
Bible bigot is remarkable for the tags in the second definition. Instead of creating keywords, the author continued the diatribe. (The author is no librarian; we would never abuse keywords that way.)
At last, exhausted for my search for the word, I went back to A Word A Day and searched smarter. I just entered the word “Bible” in the search box. From Anu Garg:
bibliomancy (BIB-lee-o-man-see) noun
Divination by interpreting a passage picked at random from a book, especially from a religious book such as the Bible.
[From Greek biblio- (book) + -mancy (divination).]
If you are having a hard time deciding between turning groupie and following your favorite band around or to stay put in your accounting job, help is at hand. Try bibliomancy. Here's the step-by-step method:
1. Pick a book you trust a lot.
2. Put it on its spine, and let it fall open.
3. With your eyes closed, trace your finger to a passage.
4. Interpret the passage as your lifemap to the future.
You could even add more randomness to the process. To do that at the macro level, visit a library and pick a book at random from the shelves. At the micro level, instead of interpreting a passage, pick a single word and let it point you to your path.
It’s bibliomancy. Thank you, Anu. I can go and search with a clear conscience, ready to follow the advice of my random encounter.
Monday, December 11, 2006
The (Not so) Notorious (Ho-Hum) Bettie Page
Bettie Page. Cult icon? Fetish hero? Pinup Queen? Victim? I’m positive she’s a complex woman, no matter how her cultural significance is interpreted. Anecdotally, her life is complicated and conflicted, but you wouldn’t know that after watching The Notorious Bettie Page.
Matthew and I watched Notorious Bettie this weekend, expecting a dramatization of her life’s events, expecting a plot rife with conflict and character and controversy. We didn’t get that. At the end of the movie, I said, “At least it was shot on film and not digital.” Matthew said, “Irving Klaw would have made a better story.”
The Notorious Bettie Page came off flat and uninteresting, its only inherent interest that it was about Bettie Page. In the “Making of” segment, the director, Mary Herron, said she wanted to “make a movie about Bettie Page and sex in the 50’s.” She did neither. The character of Bettie bounced around like an inflated beach ball, passing aimlessly, colorful and bright, floating from one scene to another. She was never shown to be affected by the traumas in her life or by the choices she made: she just gleamed along. The social aspects of sex in the 50’s were glancingly told by a few scenes where men furtively purchased girly mags and later when Irving Klaw testified before a senate committee on sexual depravity. I think the only sentiment shown (not told) by the movie was that it’s tough to be a pretty girl.
I know there are many other biographies and dramatizations of Bettie Page’s life in circulation. I hope that there are at least a few that are more true to her life--unless she really is just that bland in reality. Sorry, The Notorious Bettie Page, I give you two stars in Netflix. Don’t like.
Matthew and I watched Notorious Bettie this weekend, expecting a dramatization of her life’s events, expecting a plot rife with conflict and character and controversy. We didn’t get that. At the end of the movie, I said, “At least it was shot on film and not digital.” Matthew said, “Irving Klaw would have made a better story.”
The Notorious Bettie Page came off flat and uninteresting, its only inherent interest that it was about Bettie Page. In the “Making of” segment, the director, Mary Herron, said she wanted to “make a movie about Bettie Page and sex in the 50’s.” She did neither. The character of Bettie bounced around like an inflated beach ball, passing aimlessly, colorful and bright, floating from one scene to another. She was never shown to be affected by the traumas in her life or by the choices she made: she just gleamed along. The social aspects of sex in the 50’s were glancingly told by a few scenes where men furtively purchased girly mags and later when Irving Klaw testified before a senate committee on sexual depravity. I think the only sentiment shown (not told) by the movie was that it’s tough to be a pretty girl.
I know there are many other biographies and dramatizations of Bettie Page’s life in circulation. I hope that there are at least a few that are more true to her life--unless she really is just that bland in reality. Sorry, The Notorious Bettie Page, I give you two stars in Netflix. Don’t like.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Hey gorgeous!
Walking out of work today, a guy called out to me, "Hey gorgeous!" I smiled shyly, and he asked, "Going home for the night?"
I answered with my best Southern accent, "Ah sure ayam. Hayave a good naht!"
Flattery gets me Southern every time.
I answered with my best Southern accent, "Ah sure ayam. Hayave a good naht!"
Flattery gets me Southern every time.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Apocryphal legend of Christine
I stayed in touch with my kindergarten teacher because she lived down the street from my grandmother. We’d see each other often, coming and going from the cozy little street, and we’d chat and catch up. One visit, my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Fosterbank, surprised me with a story from when I had been her student.
“We went to the planetarium for a field trip,” she said.
I told her, “Oh yeah, I actually remember that. It was a really cool experience.”
“And your class made thank you cards the next day. I gave you sheets of paper and showed you all how to fold them into a card.”
“I think I remember that too,” I said.
“I told the class to draw a picture about the planetarium on the front of the card, then I wrote something on the board that they should copy to the inside.
“Everyone took their pencils and made dots on the front of the card to look like the spots of stars they saw in the planetarium show. You stood up and said, ‘You’re all giving me a headache. That’s not how you make a star.’ And you walked up to the chalkboard and drew a five-point star,” she drew a star in the air with her finger. “You even walked around the classroom and showed the kids how to do it.”
“Oh my god, I did that?” I covered my mouth with my hand as a sign of embarrassment.
“Yep. I’ve never forgotten that, ‘You’re giving me a headache.’ It was so funny!”
“Well, it sure sounds like me.”
“We went to the planetarium for a field trip,” she said.
I told her, “Oh yeah, I actually remember that. It was a really cool experience.”
“And your class made thank you cards the next day. I gave you sheets of paper and showed you all how to fold them into a card.”
“I think I remember that too,” I said.
“I told the class to draw a picture about the planetarium on the front of the card, then I wrote something on the board that they should copy to the inside.
“Everyone took their pencils and made dots on the front of the card to look like the spots of stars they saw in the planetarium show. You stood up and said, ‘You’re all giving me a headache. That’s not how you make a star.’ And you walked up to the chalkboard and drew a five-point star,” she drew a star in the air with her finger. “You even walked around the classroom and showed the kids how to do it.”
“Oh my god, I did that?” I covered my mouth with my hand as a sign of embarrassment.
“Yep. I’ve never forgotten that, ‘You’re giving me a headache.’ It was so funny!”
“Well, it sure sounds like me.”
Monday, December 04, 2006
Invective
Greetings, stranger slash pseudo BFF.
I don’t like you. I’m not polite to you. I don’t even make eye contact with you. I’m openly rude and hostile (see “farm boy” for example).
You don’t get to inquire about my mom. You don’t get to ask about my holiday. You don’t get to offer to buy me Sprite with grenadine.
You’re not my BFF. You’re not even an acquaintance. You’re not my friend, you’re a friend of my friend. When we see each other in bars, I go to the bathroom, I stand over the toilet, and I chop my arms in the air and yell about how much I want to you to leave me alone.
Remember when you were mad at me? Not the time that you were so mad at me that you made fun of me to my face--that made me cry a lot in the bathroom instead of karate chopping. Remember when you were the type of mad at me that you just ignored me? I loved that. I blessed you every day you literally turned up your nose at me and scowled. I loved that phase of our relationship. I loved it when you talked to my friends and invited them to your house and then turned away from me with a sideways glance and scowl.
Bad guys make sideways eyes. You should know that. You’re a movie villain, and I’m a put upon victim like we were in a Western movie or a Jane Austin novel. You’re the angry, bitter, spinster aunt-in-law, and I’m the impoverished cousin with the heart of gold.
Don’t fake charity me. Don’t ask about my mom. Don’t ask how my family roasts turkey at Thanksgiving. You don’t get that privilege from me.
Sincerely,
Christine Wy
I don’t like you. I’m not polite to you. I don’t even make eye contact with you. I’m openly rude and hostile (see “farm boy” for example).
You don’t get to inquire about my mom. You don’t get to ask about my holiday. You don’t get to offer to buy me Sprite with grenadine.
You’re not my BFF. You’re not even an acquaintance. You’re not my friend, you’re a friend of my friend. When we see each other in bars, I go to the bathroom, I stand over the toilet, and I chop my arms in the air and yell about how much I want to you to leave me alone.
Remember when you were mad at me? Not the time that you were so mad at me that you made fun of me to my face--that made me cry a lot in the bathroom instead of karate chopping. Remember when you were the type of mad at me that you just ignored me? I loved that. I blessed you every day you literally turned up your nose at me and scowled. I loved that phase of our relationship. I loved it when you talked to my friends and invited them to your house and then turned away from me with a sideways glance and scowl.
Bad guys make sideways eyes. You should know that. You’re a movie villain, and I’m a put upon victim like we were in a Western movie or a Jane Austin novel. You’re the angry, bitter, spinster aunt-in-law, and I’m the impoverished cousin with the heart of gold.
Don’t fake charity me. Don’t ask about my mom. Don’t ask how my family roasts turkey at Thanksgiving. You don’t get that privilege from me.
Sincerely,
Christine Wy
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Weirdest spam I've ever gotten?
I really don't read my spam messages, but I get a lot of them since I'm on Juno. This is one of those stock investment messages that tries to inflate prices so that the spammers can sell high. According to Kai Ryssdal, it works. (feel free to not read this. I recognize it's dull and not unique, but I just had to share since I found it remarkable.)
Wedding poems are unique ways to set your wedding apart from all the .
Not to mention, I decided that I wanted to make some sort of statement
so I decked my eyes out in black and silver and pulled my hair into a
half pony which I then proceeded to tease and crap. Your love for me is
the greatest light i have ever known. Their kids were freaks, they kept
asking me to play tackle football with them.
lots of things to share during cell too.
(note: removed boring stock stuff from here.)
pretty poor lighting, well its stage left. Oh wait, but it is
thanksgiving.
This may take a while.
Only when you realize that you are going to be alone, do you really,
truly and honestly fear it. If nothing else, I know how to sew.
or, at least satisfied. I think if one more person asks me what i am
doing after graduation im going to [farkin] explode. Liz, tell RenRen to
quit serenading me, please?
We spoke a little about prom dresses and she said that I should get mine
made as opposed to buying one. I let her look through my cure magazines
while I explained.
Oh and add libs are always fun.
c thats where my family and friends are.
Your love for me is the greatest light i have ever known.
Wedding poems can be . You can move on, i cannot. And yet, through all
of that, i feel so very sorry for you.
And their recent tour has just fueled my imagination!
They loved it but no one else wanted to sing which got knid of annoying.
We had a conversation about gackt XD and we watched random stuff on
youtube. sooo much work to do before finals.
Then I would go off to Austin and major there. I fear you, i loathe you,
I try so very hard to be the antithesis of you. They loved it but no one
else wanted to sing which got knid of annoying.
Why does this always happen.
Because I can, because it sets it free.
She felt good there in hiddenness,cupped in vegetable stuffs;the shirt
was on the far bank. I hunger for you, and that i get to explore and
play with that is the greatest gift.
I thought it was great. My disguise is perfect, and luckily no one has
recognized me.
My disguise is perfect, and luckily no one has recognized me.
I hunger for you, and that i get to explore and play with that is the
greatest gift. You know what that feels like and yet you still did it to
me.
Because I can, because it sets it free.
I think if one more person asks me what i am doing after graduation im
going to [farkin] explode.
i ahve no idea and its frustrating enoough wihtout everything pressuring
me about it all the time.
Wedding poems are unique ways to set your wedding apart from all the .
Not to mention, I decided that I wanted to make some sort of statement
so I decked my eyes out in black and silver and pulled my hair into a
half pony which I then proceeded to tease and crap. Your love for me is
the greatest light i have ever known. Their kids were freaks, they kept
asking me to play tackle football with them.
lots of things to share during cell too.
(note: removed boring stock stuff from here.)
pretty poor lighting, well its stage left. Oh wait, but it is
thanksgiving.
This may take a while.
Only when you realize that you are going to be alone, do you really,
truly and honestly fear it. If nothing else, I know how to sew.
or, at least satisfied. I think if one more person asks me what i am
doing after graduation im going to [farkin] explode. Liz, tell RenRen to
quit serenading me, please?
We spoke a little about prom dresses and she said that I should get mine
made as opposed to buying one. I let her look through my cure magazines
while I explained.
Oh and add libs are always fun.
c thats where my family and friends are.
Your love for me is the greatest light i have ever known.
Wedding poems can be . You can move on, i cannot. And yet, through all
of that, i feel so very sorry for you.
And their recent tour has just fueled my imagination!
They loved it but no one else wanted to sing which got knid of annoying.
We had a conversation about gackt XD and we watched random stuff on
youtube. sooo much work to do before finals.
Then I would go off to Austin and major there. I fear you, i loathe you,
I try so very hard to be the antithesis of you. They loved it but no one
else wanted to sing which got knid of annoying.
Why does this always happen.
Because I can, because it sets it free.
She felt good there in hiddenness,cupped in vegetable stuffs;the shirt
was on the far bank. I hunger for you, and that i get to explore and
play with that is the greatest gift.
I thought it was great. My disguise is perfect, and luckily no one has
recognized me.
My disguise is perfect, and luckily no one has recognized me.
I hunger for you, and that i get to explore and play with that is the
greatest gift. You know what that feels like and yet you still did it to
me.
Because I can, because it sets it free.
I think if one more person asks me what i am doing after graduation im
going to [farkin] explode.
i ahve no idea and its frustrating enoough wihtout everything pressuring
me about it all the time.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Apocalypto Now
OK, so your movie is SO bad that your producer/director has to do a voice-over on the trailer to explain what is happening. Not a good sign for commercial or critical success, right?
But guess what? I’m totally going to see Apocalypto in the theater. Historic + costumes + fake cultural studies = I’m there. I can’t freakin’ wait.
PS I also love TNT’s Librarian series. Heart library movies. Except Party Girl. Lame. You totally can’t learn Dewey Decimal in a day.
But guess what? I’m totally going to see Apocalypto in the theater. Historic + costumes + fake cultural studies = I’m there. I can’t freakin’ wait.
PS I also love TNT’s Librarian series. Heart library movies. Except Party Girl. Lame. You totally can’t learn Dewey Decimal in a day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
